“Hold on, hold on!” we both at the same time exclaimed, “hold on!”
“I’ve got you,” said Peter; his countenance indicating the grasp with which he had clenched something—at the same time mingled with some discomposure of spirit.
“What is it?” inquired I—“what have you got?”
“Is the old lady sick?” said Seth, in his dry and caustic manner.
All this time, Peter was trying to extract his hand with his clenched booty, and severe was the rake which he gave it, before he succeeded. But at length, with a sort of desperation, it came, and with it a hideous black snake! Fortunately he had seized it in the precise part which he could have wished—a little below the throat. Such had been his grasp that the mouth of the snake was wide open, and he looked as wildly and in as much of an agony as Sam Patch did in his leap from the Genesee falls.
Peter hurled the snake to the ground, where he soon followed. I imagine that he looked for once somewhat pale, but his usual flush again returned, and he was soon ready for fresh adventure.
George Washington.—When George Washington, afterwards the president of America, was about six years of age, some one made him a present of a hatchet, of which being, like most children, immoderately fond, he went about chopping everything that came in his way; and going into the garden, he unluckily tried its edge on an English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly, as to leave little hope of its recovery.
The next morning, his father saw the tree, which was a great favorite, in that condition, and inquired who had done this mischief, declaring he would not have taken five guineas for the tree; but nobody could inform him. Presently after, George came, with the hatchet in his hand, into the place where his father was, who immediately suspected him to be the culprit.
“George,” said the old gentleman, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?” The child hesitated for a moment, and then nobly replied, “I can’t tell a lie, pa; you know I can’t tell a lie; I did cut it with my hatchet.” “Run to my arms, my boy,” exclaimed his father, “run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree, for you have paid me for it, a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism is, my son, of more worth than a thousand cherry trees, if blossomed with silver, or bearing fruits of gold!”